OUR LOVE
is like that expensive
aqua bath mat overloading
lint trap in dryer even after
dozen of washes i scrape
excess into garbage bags
of disappointment make me
wonder why i didn’t purchase
cheap flashy turquoise one
use it then replace when thread
bare like my discarded lovers
for F.N. Wright
Sorry,
it’s the meds,
he said
an endless
pharmaceutical
battle
with
the body
of one good
sailor
Vietnam
Vet
PTSD
and never
enough
cunt & whiskey
to make the
monkeys
stop singing
haunting
war songs
only
the art
released
the crazy steam
inside
the troubled valves
pictures
and poems,
stories
and the crack
of
the American beer can
as Uncle Fred
laughed at it all
and told us
to …
piss on the pope.
after Tim Peeler
Even Larry had to wonder
what the hell they were thinking
to invite someone like him to Fenway Park
to read what he calls poetry in front of owners
and lawyers and serious sportswriters
and baseball stadium poet laureates.
They must not have known that he was born
from almost nothing and still had almost nothing
except the good sense his daddy gave him
and an appreciation of good whiskey.
They must not have known, until he pulled up
in front of the posh Commonwealth Hotel
and as the bellboy picked up his one
cheap bag, he asked, “Ya’ll know which way
it is to the bar?” that for him poetry
wasn’t Take Me Out to the Ball Game
or Casey at the Bat, but much rougher stuff,
busted mill house porch, contours
of darkness hovering over terraced field.
They must not have known that for him
the real heart of baseball would always beat
on a Legion field next to a cotton mill
somewhere north of Cherryville, North Carolina.
They must not have known that even with baseball
which he knew to be one of the few good things
left, he’d tell it the way it was,
full of greed and labor law, and mostly memory
of how things couldn’t be anymore.
after Tim Peeler
Even Larry had to wonder
what the hell they were thinking
to invite someone like him to Fenway Park
to read what he calls poetry in front of owners
and lawyers and serious sportswriters
and baseball stadium poet laureates.
They must not have known that he was born
from almost nothing and still had almost nothing
except the good sense his daddy gave him
and an appreciation of good whiskey.
They must not have known, until he pulled up
in front of the posh Commonwealth Hotel
and as the bellboy picked up his one
cheap bag, he asked, “Ya’ll know which way
it is to the bar?” that for him poetry
wasn’t Take Me Out to the Ball Game
or Casey at the Bat, but much rougher stuff,
busted mill house porch, contours
of darkness hovering over terraced field.
They must not have known that for him
the real heart of baseball would always beat
on a Legion field next to a cotton mill
somewhere north of Cherryville, North Carolina.
They must not have known that even with baseball
which he knew to be one of the few good things
left, he’d tell it the way it was,
full of greed and labor law, and mostly memory
of how things couldn’t be anymore.
I walked the riverside route yesterday
listened to the water and the clinking
of moored boats
wondered about sea gulls who stand so close to the edge
wondered about the undercurrent, the temperature and drowning
If I fell in, I thought to myself
I wouldn’t have to go to work
I think I would rather go by the hands of the river
than the flames of the fire
maybe I wont drown, I considered
maybe I’ll just get wet and cold
a temporary solution
I’ll live on, but today something will have happened
I leant on the black railings
looked across the water at a young busker playing an old tune
a simple blues formation
she sang like a beautiful ghost
she sang about drowning and burning
I walked around the harbour and dropped some change in her hat
I wanted to tell her something, only I couldn’t find the words
but by the sound of her guitar and the shapes of her song
I have a deep running suspicion, that she already knew
____________
Matthew J. Hall is a writer who lives in Bristol, England. For more about him visit www.screamingwithbrevity.com
We are born into this body
It may change shape
It may gain wisdom
It may stagnate
When a truth is known
We rise to the occasion
And hope such truth
Brings with it
A blessing
In the midst of the earthquake
Our bodies crawl to a safe spot
And when the shaking ends
A sigh begins and we start over again
Looking for a truth
Like the heart and mind does everyday…
There is no Poetry in violence
There is no violence in Poetry
Violence is not Poetic
There is no beauty . . .
There is nothing in politics
Powertrips are empty delusion
Hell we’re Poets,
We should despise politicians
Always policing the grounds of something
Is nothing sacred
Little boys wantin’ to be men
Look away,
There is no beauty here to speak of
Only bitterness
There is no Poetry in this
Don’t write violently
Violence is not worth your time
Write viciously
There is no Poetry in violence
There is no violence in Poetry
Violence is not Poetic
There is no beauty . . .
There is nothing in politics
Powertrips are empty delusion
Hell we’re Poets,
We should despise politicians
Always policing the grounds of something
Is nothing sacred
Little boys wantin’ to be men
Look away,
There is no beauty here to speak of
Only bitterness
There is no Poetry in this
Don’t write violently
Violence is not worth your time
Write viciously
You sit there
so supreme
and superior
while I toil
below
on the cracked
dusty asphalt
carrying the carrion
students have made
of paper and language
from once living structures
now dead and desiccated
as the cliches and soft thinking
they are now caused and forced
to bring forth
a halted birth
thought gone on vacation
forever.
But you articulate
so directly
no metaphors
straightforward calls
crowraven cawings accompanied
by head bobs
that display contempt
for my two-footed kin and kind.
I stumble oddly
from car to classroom
two classes’ essays
graded in late night
sleep-deprived jolts
of harsh water and jagged chips
nevermore—
dress shirt a bit tight
pants a bit too long
shoelaces ready to break
temper frayed like the inner edge
of the tie now slipping its knot
under a collar asphyxiating in intent.
You glance into my window
still unmoved from your perch
in the dogwood tree
caw-laugh
turn your tail to me
and spiritedly fly away.
And I flip you off
sending the over-processed
newly-poured
gourmet coffee
over all-
papers, pants front
shoes, soul
trapped now in heat
while you glide your way
in the still cool August mist
of a near coastal seven a.m.
Tuesday.
Rusty Truck 